


Loaded Up and Truckin'

by RaccoonDoom



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Alternate Universe - Truckers, Gen, I'm so grateful there's a tag for that, Older Characters, Smokey and the Bandit AU, This is so american I sincerely apologize to any european readers, This should be understandable with no knowledge of Smokey and the Bandit, Trucker Lingo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-07 15:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12844281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaccoonDoom/pseuds/RaccoonDoom
Summary: The year is 1977, and the Duke of Detroit wants a fireworks show; more specifically, he wants a Big Atomic™ fireworks show, but the company is based in Georgia, and it's illegal to have fireworks shipped to a state where they're banned. Infamous ex-NASCAR driver (and ex-bootlegger) turned trucker, Mike "Mutt Dog" Chilton, agrees to pick up the goods in Atlanta and bring them back to Detroit in 28 hours, because he's never been one to turn down a challenge.Featuring: A red-headed cop with a killer grudge, a runaway girl with a mean right hook, a hippie/mechanic who is too old for this shit, an excessive number of highway gangs, a little ol' convoy, no less than 6 high speed chases, and gratuitous use of trucker lingo.





	1. Celebrate in Style

**Author's Note:**

> Smokey and the Bandit was my favorite movie when I was a kid, which might have been due in part to the fact that I was raised by 2 truckers, but I can't BELIEVE I didn't consider this AU earlier. 
> 
> Anyway, in this AU the Burners are around 21-22, and Mike's reputation is built off a brief but eventful stint as a NASCAR driver. [This](http://st.hotrod.com/uploads/sites/21/2016/10/1969-plymouth-road-runner-front-three-quarter-alt-1.jpg) is the car that Mike gets, and [this](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/84/3d/2b/843d2b73bae3ba3ecaea0929294a04b6.jpg) is the model of Jacob's rig. I took a few liberties with firework laws at the time, but can you blame me?
> 
> Everyone's CB handles:  
> Mikey "Mutt Dog" Chilton  
> Chuck is "Chuckles" or "Skinny", depending on who's talking  
> Jacob is "Big Wheel"  
> Texas is "Hardhead"  
> Dutch is "Eyesore"  
> Red is just 'Red'  
> Julie eventually gets the handle "Catawampus"

Mike Chilton was waiting for his turn at the Wayne County Fair 16 th Annual Truck Rodeo, driving Jacob’s Peterbilt 359, when the self proclaimed Duke of Detroit decided to show up. Mike could see him coming from a mile away; there weren’t many people who rolled up to the fair in a cherry-red Cadillac limo. Mike tried not to pay attention to him. The Duke was into everyone’s business anyway, especially if there were cars involved; there was no reason to think he was there to pester Mike. At least, there was no reason to think that was the  _ only  _ reason he was there. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mike could see a figure in a bright red leisure suit with enough glittering jewelry to outshine a disco ball approaching his truck. He groaned. Then, out of spite, didn’t look that way again until he heard a pointed “ _ Ah-hem _ ” from directly to his left.

He leaned out the window and looked down at the Duke and his assistant.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he said, grinning. The Duke tapped his foot impatiently.

“I don’t have time for your  _ attitude,  _ Mutt,” which was rich coming from him. “I heard you were around and I came to strike a deal.”

“Not interested,” Mike replied immediately, already reaching for the window crank.

“Oh, please. You can’t seriously tell me that  _ the  _ Mike ‘Mutt Dog’ Chilton is satisfied with running turns for Rayon and dicking around at county fairs. I thought you might be interested in a  _ real  _ challenge.”

“Nope,” Mike lied in a truly admirable display of impulse control, continuing to roll the window up.

“Not interested in eighty thousand dollars?” The Duke said, and  _ that  _ made Mike pause. 

He rolled the window back down slowly, with a skeptical glare. The Duke just grinned and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops.

“Go on,” Mike said, against his better judgement.

The Duke’s smile widened even more, showing a glint of gold molars. “That’s what I thought.” He swung open the door and clambered across Mike before he could protest, managing to knee him in the stomach and elbow him in the neck before planting himself in the passenger seat, propping his gator-skin boots up on the dash without a second glance at Mike’s glare. He took off his aviators and hung them from the gold chain around his neck.

“The thing is, I’m hosting a little…  _ race,  _ of sorts, and--nah-ah-ah!” He held a finger up as Mike opened his mouth-- “I don’t want you to  _ participate,  _ good Lord, I still remember how the last one went. No, that’s not why I’m here. See, whoever wins, I want to celebrate in  _ style _ . With  _ PYROTECHNICS, BABY! _ ” He gesticulated wildly, then deflated.

“But there’s a tricky piece to it. Those pesky interstate commerce laws means I can’t have my brand of fireworks shipped into Detroit--they’re Georgia-based, you see. And  _ you,” _ he jabbed Mike in the chest with the ridiculous gold-plated cane he carried around, “are my best shot. I need 2,000 for my show by tomorrow evening, 6 pm, and I’m willing to pay. Eighty thousand dollars, to be exact. That’s, what, 30 times what you’d make if you won this ridiculous contest here?”

Mike realized his mouth was gaping and promptly snapped it shut. 

“That’s  _ illegal-- _ ” 

“Not if you don’t get caught,” the Duke interrupted. “And that’s real funny,  _ you  _ complaining about an illegal job.”

Mike turned his head and scowled.

“Where in Georgia?” he demanded.

“About 20 miles outside Atlanta, a little town called Fairburn.”

Detroit to Atlanta was a little over 700 miles; an 11 hour run, 10 and a half if you didn’t run into bad traffic and only stopped to refuel, so Fairburn would be about 12 hours--24 hours round trip.

Eighty  _ thousand dollars. _

“Lemme see the cash.”

“The  _ nerve! _ ” The Duke exclaimed, acting insulted. “My word is my  _ bond!  _ You should know that.”

“Do you want your fireworks or not?” Mike snapped.

With a huff, the Duke stuck his hand out the passenger window and crooked a finger up. His assistant appeared out of nowhere--what was her name?--which was pretty cool but also kind of startling, and handed him a briefcase. 

“ _ Thank _ you,” he said, and she dropped out of their line of sight again. By the time Mike looked back at the Duke, he had a stack of hundred dollar bills in his hand.

“This isn’t all of it, of course, but I assume it’s enough to convince you?” He peered at mike like he was looking over the rim of his sunglasses, nevermind that he had taken them off a few minutes ago.

Mike stared out the windshield, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.  _ Eighty thousand dollars.  _

“Well, I’ll need gas money,” he finally said, turning in his seat. “Plus the cash to pay for the fireworks, and some emergency money, not to mention--”

The Duke shoved the whole stack at Mike, nearly hitting him in the face. Mike snatched it out of his hand and tried not to look too excited. 

“That’s 10,000 dollars. Consider it good faith money.”

Mike started to flip through the bills, counting under his breath.

“Don’t waste your time counting,” the Duke said as he stood to leave. “By my watch, you’ve got...27 hours and 56 minutes to get there and back. I hope you’ve got some greyhound in you, Mutt, because you’ve gotta  _ run. _ ”

* * *

 

Mike rolled up to Jacob’s Diner and Garage 15 minutes later and practically fell out of the truck in his rush to get inside. He nearly plowed into a couple of customers on their way out the door, then vaulted himself over the counter, knocking over a napkin dispenser that he fumbled upright before slamming through the kitchen doors.

“ _ JACOB!”  _ Mike hollered, barreling down the narrow aisle between the grills and deep fryers and grabbing Jacob by the shoulders as he came out of the storage room, looking alarmed.

“Guess what,” Mike said, out of breath and grinning.

“Oh, Lord,” Jacob said. “If you had a tail it’d be wagging, so I’m guessing it ain’t nothing good.”

“I made a deal with the Duke--”

“Oh  _ Lord,--” _

“For  _ eighty thousand dollars,  _ Jacob, do you know how much money that is?” Mike said, trying to keep his voice low but ending up with a clearly-audible stage whisper in his excitement. “All we gotta do is get a load of fireworks from Fairburn to Detroit--”

“ _ We? _ ” Jacob interjected, sliding past Mike to get back to the counter. “Have you got a mouse in your shirt-pocket? Because I know you ain’t talking about you and  _ me _ .”

“I mean, Chuckles would be coming, too,” Mike dodged, and Jacob gave him a long stare.

“C’mon!” Mike pressed, following Jacob back through the doors. “It’ll be just like before! I’ll run interference and you haul the load, easy as pie. We just haveta get there and back by 6 tomorrow night.” 

“I don’t know, kid, I’m not as young as I used to be,” Jacob said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bootlegging is one thing, but dealing with the Duke is a whole ‘nother ball game.”

Mike gave his best imitation of the puppy-dog eyes that he had used liberally as a child. Jacob whapped him on the chin with a washcloth.

“Think about it,” Mike pleaded. He drummed his fingers on the countertop as Jacob wiped the surface down for a minute, silently deliberating.

After what felt like an eternity, he laid the rag aside with a sigh and faced Mike again.

“How much money did you say this deal was?”

“ _ Eighty thousand dollars,” _ Mike repeated, leaning in conspiratorially but unable to wipe the smile off his face.

“You’re gonna kill me yet, yougun,” Jacob muttered, then threw his hands up. “Fine! I’ll go.”

Mike let out a whoop and punched the air, running toward the door as Jacob shouted at Sam and Philip to hold down the fort til Ruby got there for the evening. 

“Chuck’s still here, right?” Mike called, pausing half out the door.

“Yeah, he was asleep upstairs, last I saw,” Jacob called back.

With that, Mike raced outside, past the open garage door, and around the corner, taking the rickety steps 3 at a time. Dutch’s one-eyed cur-dog, Roth, was asleep on the porch, and Mike spared a second to scratch behind his ears before barreling into the apartment.

Just like Jacob said, Chuck was asleep on the couch, wrapped up in some ratty old throw with his head covered up and his sock-clad feet sticking out the other end, snoring. Mike opened the blinds to let light pour through the window and blithely tugged the blanket down, revealing Chuck’s disheveled hair and bleary, irritable expression.

“I got us a deal,” Mike said, eyes twinkling. 

Chuck stared at him for another half-second before he yanked the blanket back up and buried his face into his pillow.

“Chuckles, come on.”

“ _ No, _ ” Chuck replied, not moving.

“Listen, I know I’ve made some bad decisions in the past, I’ll go ahead and admit it,” Mike said, climbing onto the couch and lying on top of Chuck, propped up on one elbow, “but I  _ promise _ this is the opportunity of a lifetime!  _ Eighty thousand dollars  _ if we can get a load of fireworks from Atlanta back to Detroit by tomorrow evening.”

Chuck groaned, so Mike rolled off the couch and tossed him the jeans that were lying on the coffee table.

“You know it’s illegal to transport fireworks across state lines for resale, right?” Chuck said, reluctantly pushing himself upright. His hair was fluffed around his head like a dandelion, and Mike couldn’t resist the urge to ruffle it even more, until Chuck swatted his hand away. 

“Can’t get in trouble if you don’t get caught,” Mike said, flashing a grin as he instinctively busied himself picking up stray clothes and debris from the floor while Chuck got dressed. “Besides, we’re just gonna be running interference. Jacob’s hauling the load in ‘Squatch. It’ll be fun!” He grabbed a spare shirt from the floor and tossed it over his shoulder, then shook out a blue and white sweatshirt with the Detroit Lions emblem on the front.

“You and I have very different definitions of  _ fun _ ,” Chuck said dryly, holding out a hand. “Pass me that.”

“Let me get this straight,” Chuck said after tugging the sweatshirt on over his t-shirt. “We gotta drive from here, to Atlanta, and back to here, by tomorrow night--"

“Well, by 6,” Mike corrected. “So that gives us about 27 and a half hours.”

“We have to drive to Atlanta and back in 27 and a half hours, blocking for Jacob, who is gonna be hauling a load of illegal fireworks.”

“For 80,000 dollars.”

“For 80,000 dollars.”

Mike nodded. “Yeah, that’s it!”

Chuck ran his fingers through his hair several times, combing it to something not quite passable as ‘neat’ but not obviously bedhead, either. His hands were shaking very slightly. 

“You’re crazy, you know that?” Chuck said. “You’re absolutely insane, and I have no idea how you lived past 18. Eighty thousand dollars?”

 

Mike nodded enthusiastically. 

 

“Shit. Hand me my shoes.”

 

* * *

 

Jacob insisted on taking Roth with him, despite Mike’s emphasis on the ever-shrinking time limit breathing down their necks. 

“I can’t just leave him here!” he said, hoisting the dog up in his arms. “And he won’t slow me down any, don’t you worry. Y’know, as a matter of fact, he’s an  _ excellent  _ watchdog, so I can let him watch the truck for me if I need to make a pit stop.”

“Alright, whatever, but we need to  _ leave! _ ” Mike paced back and forth next to his car--a lime green Roadrunner with black racing stripes that he had bought with the Duke’s advance--as Jacob boosted the old dog into the cab of his truck

“I’m going, I’m going,” Jacob griped, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Wait--what’s the radio plan? You’ve thought about that, right?” Chuck asked, with a tone of voice that meant he knew it hadn’t crossed their minds. “You know the police have CBs, too, now. We can’t just stay on 19 the whole time, not for this job.”

Mike opened his mouth, paused, closed it again. Jacob scratched his beard.

“We’ll just--” he started, then broke off. “Hmm.”

“How about we start on channel 1 and go up each time,” Chuck suggested.

“Sounds good to me!” Jacob said, swinging the door shut and leaning out the window, missing any apprehension from earlier. “Time to hustle, boys, we got a run to make!” The Sasquatch started up with a noise like a grizzly growl and belch of diesel smoke.

Mike laughed, genuine and unrestrained as a child, as he tugged Chuck toward the car in his rush to scramble inside.

 


	2. Hammer Down and Raise Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start going very fast, and the boys meet an old friend! Just kidding, he's not a friend, he's nightmare spawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off I’m SORRY i lied about when i was gonna publish this chapter, finals kicked my ass then work kicked it again, anyway HERE SHE IS
> 
> I made a [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t7bXa0RPWys&list=PLrQQ74-ojjs_NHmOVOUXvaTh3ph8dWRNZ) which I would strongly advise you not to listen to while you're driving, but check it out! It'll help getcha into the mood of the story.
> 
> Also, CB Lingo in this chapter:  
>  **“Break”** or **“Breaker”** -indicates that you want to speak on a channel; usually precedes the channel number, e.g. ‘Breaker one-nine’  
>  **“Wall to wall and treetop tall”** \- I hear you loud and clear/your signal is plenty strong  
>  **“10-4”** \- a catch-all affirmative.  
>  **“Bear”** \- Cop. Includes **“Smokey Bear”** , usually state highway patrol (named for their uniform hat’s similarity to Smokey Bear’s hat), **“County mounty”** , a cop that works for the county sheriff, **“Local yokel”** , a small town cop, and **“Kojak with a Kodak”** , a cop with a radar gun (also known as a “picture-taker”, “speed trap”, or “bear trap”).  
>  **“Plain [color] wrapper”** \- an unmarked police vehicle  
>  **"Suicide Jockey"** \- a haz-mat truck.  
> If there's a word or phrase in here that you don't know please tell me and I'll add it to the list, this stuff is just part of my normal vocab so I'm never sure what's common knowledge and whats niche

It only took them a hot second to get going; Mike tossed his day-bag and some cans of soda into the back seat while Chuck hunched in the passenger seat and fiddled with the CB, trying to get it tuned right. By the time Jacob got the rig turned around, Mike was slinging gravel as he pulled out.

The trip out of Detroit proper was uneventful, but not for a lack of trying on Mike’s end. He put the Roadrunner through its paces, listening to the engine scream as they flew down I-94, whooping as they wove through traffic and left everyone else in the dust.

 _“You know 94 is the road number, not the speed limit, right!?”_ Chuck screeched. He had one hand white-knuckled on the edge of the seat and the other fisted in his hair, exposing his expression of bug-eyed terror.

“C’mon, Chuckles, we’re barely touching a hundred,” Mike laughed, high on adrenaline, but obligingly let their speed drop to 80.

“We shouldn’t even be in the same _zipcode_ as a hundred,” he replied, voice still tense but not quite as panicked. “You gotta quit driving like you’re in the damn Talladega 500.”

“I don’t!” Mike protested.

“Oh, yeah?” Chuck retorted. “What happened to your last car?”

Mike pursed his lips, staring pointedly back at the road. He risked a glance back at Chuck, who raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Blown engine,” he muttered, chagrined.

“And the one before that? The GTO that only had 20,000 miles on it?”

“Come on, buddy, cut me some slack,” Mike pleaded, but he was biting his cheek to keep from cracking a smile.

“ _—And_ the Fairline you bought off of Jenzen? What happened to them, again?”

Mike hummed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, ears hot.

“Blown engines.”

“And the Chevy?”

“Hey, I wrecked that one,” Mike asserted.

“That’s not—that doesn’t help your case at _all!”_ Chuck sputtered, flinging his arms out in exasperation. Without a hand holding up his bangs, his hair fell back across his face in disarray.

Mike couldn’t keep from snorting, and he ineffectually tried to hide his laughter behind his hand as Chuck swatted his shoulder.

“Quit laughing! I’m trying to host an intervention, here!” he cried. “The first step is acknowledging that you have a problem, which I think we’ve established.”

“Okay, okay, I’m done,” Mike said, still trying to stifle his giggling. “Now that you mention it, I _might_ have an issue. What’s step two?”

“Step two is recognizing that a higher power—that would be me,” he added as an aside, “—can help you _stop destroying every vehicle you drive!”_

Mike managed to keep a straight face for 3 whole seconds before his laughter came back with a vengeance, joined by Chuck’s infectious snickering a few seconds later.

Mike finally got his laughter under enough control to say, “It might be a little late for rehab. About 6 cars too late. I think my blood is mostly gasoline at this point.” To drive his point home, he punched the accelerator, and couldn’t quit smiling if he tried.

 

They made it all the way to I-75 without a hitch, and Chuck wasn’t having it.

“It means that it’s time for something horrible to happen,” he stressed, warily eyeing the haz-mat truck coded for explosives that they were passing.

“Don’t be such a pessimist,” Mike ribbed, chipper as ever. “It’s probably a sign that the trip is gonna go great!”

“I’m not a _pessimist,_ I’m a _realist,”_ Chuck protested. “I’m just drawing conclusions from previous experience. It’s called inductive reasoning.”

“Never heard of it,” Mike declared.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t have,” Chuck said good-naturedly. Mike huffed a breath and rolled his eyes, barely suppressing a grin.

“Lemme holler at Jacob and see where he’s at,” Mike said as the conversation lulled. He glanced in his rearview, scanning for Jacob’s distinctive blue truck and flame decals, then keyed the CB mic.

“Breaker-one, this is Mutt Dog, you got a copy on me, Big Wheel?”

A brief crackle of static, then Jacob’s voice came through. _“Wall to wall and treetop tall, Mutt, this is Big Wheel. What’s the news?”_

Mike grinned. “Just checking in. You made it to 75 yet?”

 _“I just rolled off the get-on ramp,”_ he replied.

“We’re about 2 miles ahead of you, then,” Mike said. “It’s looking like a clean shot straight to Queen City.”

 _“I hope you’re right,”_ Jacob said. _“Me and Roth don’t need the stress.”_

“Neither do I,” Chuck muttered.

“We’ll stay in earshot,” Mike promised.

_“You better! Keep your nose between the ditches, you hear?”_

“Loud and clear,” Mike replied. He hooked the mic on the rearview mirror.

Another blissful few minutes went by without trouble, and then things got exciting.

It happened like this: there was a Kojack with a Kodak parked behind a low billboard by the side of the road, almost hidden from sight. Neither Mike nor Chuck noticed him until they were almost on top of him, and Chuck yelled _“COP!”_.

By that point, it was too late to slow down, so Mike slammed the pedal to the floor and the engine howled. A second later, sirens started wailing behind them.

“Wow! I didn’t think we were gonna start having fun til we got outta Michigan,” Mike remarked, swerving around a station wagon.

“Again, I don’t think you know what that word means,” Chuck gritted out. “ _Fun_ and _getting arrested_ are mutually exclusive.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna get arrested.” Mike dodged through another cluster of traffic, ignoring the honking of the other motorists. He almost made it to the clear stretch of road ahead, but right at the front of the group, all 3 lanes were occupied by cars driving side-by-side. There was no space to get around them, and he had to brake to avoid rear-ending anyone, laying on the horn as the sirens behind them got louder. No opening appeared.

He glanced in his rearview mirror to find that the cop was uncomfortably close, a couple of car-lengths away and closing the gap quickly. When Mike risked a glance again, the distance had been halved. Then he did a double take, because he recognized the driver.

“Uh-oh,” Mike said, and swerved onto the shoulder and floored it. Desperate times call for desperate measures! He made it past the infuriatingly slow blockade of cars, then merged back into the hammer lane and let the engine howl. When he glanced in the mirror, the cop was luckily still stuck behind the cars.

“‘Uh-oh’? What’s ‘ _uh-oh’?!”_ Chuck demanded.

Mike didn’t answer until they were back up to 95 mph.

“That was Red.”

“Oh, God,” Chuck said, gripping his seatbelt again. “We’re gonna die.”

To put it lightly, Red disliked Mike. They had raced at the same time, back before Mike’s fall from grace in the NASCAR circuit. They were both young and skilled and always neck-in-neck, and naturally their rivalry got played up for the media, but the reality was that they didn’t interact very often; Mike certainly didn’t have any ill-will toward him. But there was something unsettling about him, other than his legendary temper—he had the eerie habit of being very still and very quiet until suddenly he wasn’t, and by the time anyone could react, someone was usually on the ground.

The long and short of Red’s grudge toward Mike was based in the fact that Mike clipped his bumper in a qualifying race and sent him into a tailspin that cost him a top-10 spot, and thus knocked him out of that season’s Cup Series. The next time they raced together, Red rammed Mike’s car into the barrier.

It took 3 crashes for Mike to realize Red had a vendetta. After the 5th, the officials decided that disqualifying him from individual races wasn’t doing anything, barred him from the rest of the season, mostly ruined his racing career. He apparently still blamed Mike for the whole thing, and went on about ‘unequal administration of justice’ or something. All Mike knew was that he was crazy as a bedbug and sharp as a tack, which was a dangerous combination in someone with a mean streak the size of Lake Superior.

Mike still had no idea how Red had weaseled his way onto the police force, but he had. Mike had been on the hitting-end of his nightstick once before—wrong place, wrong time, wrong night to avoid a traffic stop. He wasn’t keen on repeating it.

When Mike looked in the mirror, Red had broken free of the traffic and was headed their way, lights blazing and siren screaming. He grabbed the CB.

“Breaker-two to Big Wheel, this is Mutt, do you copy?”

 _“This is Big Wheel, come on,”_ Jacob replied.

“You’re not gonna believe this, but I just saw my old pal Red,” Mike said. “You remember how he’s a cop, now, right?”

_“Oh, is that what I see about a mile uproad flashing blue-blue-blue?”_

“You guessed it,” Mike replied. The sirens behind them kept wailing, and there was nowhere to hide on the open interstate. “I’m gonna take this next exit and see if I can shake him.”

 _“Mercy sakes,”_ Jacob said. _“Do what you gotta do, but try to stay southbound, at least.”_

“10-4,” Mike said, and cut in front of a pickup onto the upcoming exit.

Chuck shrieked, grabbed Mike’s shoulder with one hand, and braced his other against the ceiling of the car. His grip was tight enough that Mike wouldn’t be surprised to find bruises there tomorrow.

He swung to the right at the end of the exit, tires squealing, onto the 2-lane road. The engine roared like a crack of thunder as they tore down the street.

After a few seconds, the Red re-appeared in the rearview.

A side-street came up on their left, and Mike cut the wheel to send them flying down it, Red following about 10 seconds later. Mike took roads at random, left and right and left again, trying to get out of sight—a hard thing to do on flat land with no obstacles.

With another turn, they ended up in a well-to-do-looking suburb, full of cookie-cutter houses and trimmed trees in a nice grid. Mike sped wildly, dodging parked cars and slow traffic without falling under 70 mph. Everything looked the same, though, and it only took a minute for the houses and trees to blend together into an endless, dizzying loop.

Red had gotten smart and silenced his sirens, so Mike had no way of figuring out where he was without being in his sight. Every time he caught a glimpse of flashing lights, he took them in the opposite direction, back and forth and zigzagging away. Their path ended up so convoluted that it started to feel like a scene from Scooby Doo. Mike wasn’t even sure who was doing the chasing and who was being chased anymore.

“I _really_ hate the suburbs,” Mike muttered, barely missing a car parked half in the road.

“You and me, both,” Chuck agreed. They left it at that.

Eventually, almost a full minute passed with no sight of him. Mike slowed down incrementally, craning his neck to glance around.

“You think we lost him?” Mike asked, too soon. The words had barely left his mouth when a blur of black and white sped across the intersection 30 yards away.

He screeched to a stop, and Red did the same. For about 3 seconds, neither of them moved.  

“ _Nope,”_ Chuck said.

Then Red reversed and cut the wheel so he faced them head on, and he was staring Mike right in the face. From the way he snarled, pointed a finger, and mouthed _‘YOU’_ , Mike was pretty sure he recognized him.

“Mikey, _go!”_ Chuck yelled, slapping him rapid-fire on the arm. Mike burned rubber, making a U-turn through half of someone’s yard, slinging dirt and sod behind them. He was pretty sure he took out their mailbox, too—he’d worry about that later. Red was almost touching his bumper.

“Turn right!” Chuck suddenly directed, and Mike jerked the wheel without thinking.

“THAT’S _LEFT!”_ he shouted.

“THAT’S THE ONLY DIRECTION I KNOW HOW TO TURN!” Mike shouted back.

"This is a dead end!" Chuck had a hand fisted in his hair again, wide-eyed.

He was right. They were rapidly approaching the end of a cul-de-sac, but Red was still behind them. There was about half a second for Mike to decide what to do, and really, stopping wasn’t an option.

“Hold on tight,” he said. He slammed his foot onto the gas and plowed straight past the end of the road, between the narrow gap between two houses, and through a hedge. He grimaced at the sound of branches scraping against the underside of the car.

They burst free of the shrubbery into someone’s backyard, and thank god no one was out there, because Mike drove right across the middle and back onto the road.

“Which way—,” he began; Chuck was talking before he finished his sentence.

“Make left at that stop sign—not _into_ it, if you can help it,” he said. Mike left the stop sign intact.

“Go straight til you get to the end of this road, then make a right,” he continued. Mike sped up as Chuck rattled off directions; he only took his foot off the gas when Chuck paused or shut his eyes, thinking. Both of them obsessively checked the mirrors, but there was no sign of pursuit.

Left, right, straight, left, right, right at the stoplight, and suddenly Mike knew exactly where he was. A few minutes later, he saw the sign: I-75 South, left lane.

 

Mike didn’t let himself relax until they were speeding down the interstate again. When one last check showed no Red, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Then, he broke into full-body laughter, lit up with adrenaline, his heart pounding.

“I can’t believe that _worked!”_ he exclaimed, jostling Chuck with an arm around his shoulder.

He laughed along with him at first, giddy and half-hysterical, and it was great. It was great! They  _won!_

After about half a minute, though, Chuck... wasn't really laughing anymore. When Mike looked at him again, his hands were covering his face, and his breaths were quick and shallow and occasionally punctuated with a convulsive half-laugh, a little _ha!_ He was shaking.

Mike slowed to a reasonable 75 with more than a twinge of guilt.

He grabbed for the CB just to fill the silence.

“Breaker 3, can you hear me, Big Wheel?”

“ _Loud and clear,”_ Jacob replied. “ _I was startin’ to fear the worst.”_

“We’re still kicking, don’t worry,” Mike replied. “What’s your 20?”

“ _Just got on the 280 a minute ago. I’m bypassing Toledo, all that traffic was looking bad.”_

“What? You’re at _Toledo?!_ Thats— _”_ Mike tried to do the math in his head, scanning for a mile marker to use for reference. “— _25 miles_ ahead of us, what the heck! It only took us, like, 10 minutes to get rid of Red.”

“ _I got places to be,”_ he replied, nonchalant. “ _Shake and bake, boys! I can’t do this all by myself.”_ The line was quiet for a second, then Jacob added, “ _Well, I could, but I don’t want to. Now haul ass!”_

“10-4,” Mike said, and hung the mic back on the rearview mirror.

Chuck was still kind of… hunched over and shaky. Mike kept his eyes on the road and groped blindly behind him for his day-bag, finally managing to snag one of the straps and haul it onto his lap. He rummaged through clothes, tools, old receipts, bits of garbage, and finally found the box of raisinets he’d thrown in there.

He prodded Chuck in the leg with them, then awkwardly tried to slide the box under his arm. They fell onto his thigh, then slowly overbalanced until they fell into the floor.

It was another couple minutes before Chuck took a slow, deep breath and sat up.

“There’s raisinets on the floor, if you want ‘em,” Mike said.

“Do you know what direction _right_ is? _”_ Chuck asked, not acknowledging the offer.

Mike hesitated just a little too long before pointing in Chuck’s direction. “This way.”

Chuck nodded.

“Okay. Okay, I just. Had to make sure.” He picked up the box from the floor and tore it open, then poured about half the box of candy straight into his mouth.

“Let’s go catch up, then, I guess,” he said, the words distorted around the wad of half-chewed chocolate and raisins.

Mike pushed the pedal to the floor and wordlessly held out a cupped hand; Chuck obligingly shook some candy out for him, and Mike shoved the handful into his mouth.

He suddenly realized how much he had missed this; it had been a couple months since they’d gone on a real drive, and he’d forgotten how much easier it was to have his co-pilot with him. This would be the longest trip they’d taken since… Well. Since the Big Bad.

Mike didn’t say that out loud.

They traveled in comfortable silence. Chuck rummaged around in Mike’s bag for a minute, which Mike was pretty much indifferent to, assuming Chuck was looking for another snack. He was only a little bit confused when, instead, he pulled out a marker and leaned over to draw the letter “R” on his hand.

“Right,” Chuck said, deadpan. “Just in case you forget how to turn that way again.”

Mike gave him an impassive stare, then lunged for the marker..

“Gimme that—unbelievable,” he said, swiping as Chuck pulled it out of reach, “—the _disrespect!”_ He was laughing. “Let me have that—,” he grabbed for the marker again, then yanked his hand back when Chuck uncapped it and held it out like a switchblade. The car veered slightly with his movements and Chuck yelped “Watch the road!”, but he brought them back into their lane without even leaving the asphalt.

“Fine! Whatever, keep the dang thing,” Mike pretended to gripe, focusing back on the road. “Gimme some more raisinets.”

The R was actually kind of helpful, but he wasn’t gonna admit that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen I know that’s not how NASCAR qualifiers work but let me take some liberties for the Drama. Also please excuse my current and future “left turns are the only turns” jokes (haha get it because in NASCAR they only have to turn left?? Please laugh)
> 
> Me, realizing that many people reading this haven’t seen Smokey and the Bandit: (rubs my greedy little hands together) My City Now


End file.
